


Between Need and Want

by Magnolia822



Series: Ineffably Kinky Husbands (Good Omens Kink Meme Fills) [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Chronic Illness, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dubious Consent, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Other, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sex Pollen, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: After being dosed with demonic sex pollen that leads to a long-term condition, Crowley turns to Aziraphale for help again, and again, and again.Originally written forthis kink memeprompt.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffably Kinky Husbands (Good Omens Kink Meme Fills) [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1476824
Comments: 41
Kudos: 708
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Between Need and Want

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I started this before the COVID outbreak, and like a lot of creators have had a hard time with my writing mojo, particularly because in this fic, Crowley is suffering from a chronic 'illness' *cough* sex pollen poisoning *cough*. If that doesn't float your boat, you know what to do. 
> 
> Thank you to SillyGoose as always for the beta. I tinkered with it later, so any additional mistakes are mine. No offense is intended, etc.

_Then._

“Angel,” Crowley says, staggering through the door to the bookshop, He is sweating, the heat prickling up his spine and the ache already building between his thighs. The musty, warm smell of old books and tea fills his nostrils, but underneath that is the scent of Aziraphale, which inflames his body further even as it soothes his racing thoughts. “Hey angel,” he calls again, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He wipes the back of his wrist against his forehead, feels it burning—it’ll only get worse. “You here?” 

“Just a moment,” comes a voice from the back room. “I was doing a bit of work on the accounts. I wasn’t expecting—” Aziraphale walks into the room still focused on the leather-bound book in his hand, but when he looks up he freezes. “Oh dear. Is it time already?”

Crowley gives him a miserable nod, using the bookshelf behind him as a support and hoping it’s not too noticeable. “Yeah. Fuck, I’m ss-sorry, angel. Tried to hold it off.” 

“My dear, you know very well that you can do no such thing. We’ve been through this before. You’re to come to me immediately when the first symptoms arise. You musn’t endanger yourself.” Aziraphale frowns at him, his eyes worried. Crowley tries to release his grip on the shelf he’s holding, but he’s afraid if he does, he’ll fall forward and cling to Aziraphale like velcro. He might be subject to the vagrant whims of this incurable affliction, but he still has some dignity, thank you very much. 

“Well,” Aziraphale says. “Let’s get the shop locked. Do you think you can manage the stairs, or will I have to take care of you down here?” 

Crowley grits his teeth even as the ache between his legs intensifies. He’s sopping wet, his cunt engorged and sore and so sensitive even the movement of the fabric of his trousers makes him want to scream. He’s been stupid to wait so long, but this is the first time in a year he’s had a flare-up, and he’d been in denial until he woke up this morning in a pool of sweat, his usual cock replaced with an aching vulva. Plus, they’ve had more important things to worry about than Crowley’s little problem—the Antichrist, for one, has recently been born, and if they don’t figure out some way to intervene, soon enough the world is going to go to Hell in a handbasket, quite literally. 

“Down here,” he says. “Just to take the edge off. I can’t . . . wait much longer.” 

“Oh, dear me. Let’s get you seen to,” Aziraphale says, his eyes and mouth softening. Still, he is all business as he performs a series of quick miracles to give them total privacy. 

Crowley shifts restlessly back and forth, stifling a moan as the sound of the lock turning sends another wave of need crashing through him. He is so close to getting what he craves. Automatically his hand goes to his trousers, fumbling with the zip; his manual dexterity is limited when he’s like this, his brain too muzzy. It’s getting worse, quickly, now that he is here and in Aziraphale’s presence. If he doesn’t have Aziraphale’s cock filling him soon, he’ll probably pass out. It’s happened before—the last time,1983, had been a real bother. He and Aziraphale had been in different countries doing their respective tempting and thwarting, and Crowley hadn’t wanted to bother the angel with his little problem until he’d finally cracked and made the call before losing consciousness in his flat. If Aziraphale hadn’t rushed back to London, neither of them really knew what would have happened—perhaps he would have been discorporated. Maybe worse. 

“Let me help you with that.” Aziraphale appears by his side, his jacket and waistcoat discarded and his belt undone. His square, surprisingly nimble fingers take over, and Crowley can only stare, panting, as his fly is undone and his trousers are tugged down over his lean hips, baring his flesh and revealing his sex. Aziraphale pauses, biting his lower lip as he looks, and for a moment Crowley can almost believe that Aziraphale wants to do this, that he finds Crowley attractive. It’s a lovely fantasy, and one that helps him get through these dangerous moments. Aziraphale is his friend, and he’s committed to helping Crowley in his time of trouble. Nothing more. 

“Oh, my dear, you’re quite soaked,” Aziraphale says, his fingers slipping between Crowley’s swollen folds. “How would you like to do this?” 

“Don’t care,” Crowley gasps. “Just fuck me, please.” When he’s this close to getting what he needs, the ache becomes almost intolerable. His whole body quivers with anticipation, and before he even knows what’s happening, he’s bracing himself against the bookshelf, arse out, arching his back to present himself. The slick is dripping between his legs and he wonders, not for the first time, if Aziraphale finds it distasteful. He’s certainly never said such a thing in the hundred years since they’ve been forced to fuck this way—ever since Crowlely was accidentally cursed with the pollen of a demonic flower during one of his visits to Hell.

It was meant to be used by succubi and incubi—a tool to make their prey more receptive, but only in small doses. Crowley got a full faceful of the stuff, enough to alter his corporation’s chemistry and lurk latent in his body until randomly triggered—by what, he has no idea, though he thinks it has something to do with the moon and the seasons and the stars. Who the fuck knows. His body simply decides it’s time, and then . . . it’s time. 

After he’d been dosed, Aziraphale had discovered him in his flat, howling in pain as he writhed on four of his own fingers, his pussy so engorged and slick it had dripped between his thighs, making the bed sheets wet. Crowley doesn’t like to think of that first time—how he had begged and pleaded with Aziraphale to find a human to help him; how Aziraphale had grimly refused, unwilling to leave Crowley in his vulnerable state; how badly Crowley had wanted to spare Aziraphale from having the sex forced upon him; and then how good that first thrust had felt; how he had sobbed and held onto Aziraphale as they fucked, fearful that the angel would Fall on account of it, grateful all the same. 

But Aziraphale hadn’t fallen. Not then nor after any of the times it had happened since then. Still, Crowley isn’t foolish enough to think that the angel actually _wants_ this. Crowley can’t imagine this compulsory need, this messy physical action, being anything other than distasteful to his angel. His angel. Now _that’s_ a thought better not dwelt on too long.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to. Aziraphale is quickly behind him, lining up his fat prick and pushing it deeply into Crowley’s cunt. Crowley accepts it greedily, moaning and pushing back until Aziraphale is buried to the hilt. It quenches his hungry need almost immediately. His heart rate slows, and the painful ache begins to subside into what will be, in only a matter of moments, exquisite pleasure. Aziraphale stays tight against him, gentling his hands over Crowley’s thin hips as he starts to relax. 

“There you are, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice strained. “Is this what you need?” 

“Yeah. Oh yeah, fuck,” Crowley says, hardly able to stop himself from whining. “Feels so good, angel. Thank you.” 

“Please don’t thank me.” Aziraphale’s fingers dig into his hips. “You know I would do anything to help you.” 

Crowley’s cunt opens for Azirphale’s cock as he starts to move his hips, filling Crowley so perfectly every time, his legs go weak. It’s mere seconds before he’s teetering on the precipice of his first orgasm, and it only takes one deep thrust and his own fingers against his clit for his cunt to spasm and ripple, tightening around Aziraphale and pulling him even deeper as he comes. He is vaguely aware of the sound of Aziraphale’s harsh breaths, his motions quickening as his own climax approaches. The sounds of their bodies moving together fill the room, and Crowley closes his eyes, letting himself give in, waiting for what his cunt is so eager to receive. 

Aziraphale, as always, gives him everything. He lets out a barely audible moan as his hips stutter, resting flush against Crowely’s arse as he empties himself, the warm wetness of his release mingling with Crowley’s slickness. Crowley can feel the pulse inside him and he reaches back to grasp Aziraphale’s thigh and keep him close. He’s almost there again, just from the feel of having Azirphale come inside him, from the relief of the pain easing and the pleasure of his angel holding him so tightly he can feel his warm breath on the back of his neck. 

They never speak of it when it’s over. How many times has it been? Crowley likes to pretend he doesn’t know, but he does: two hundred and fifteen. There have been moments when he has even wished he could activate the curse himself, and more than once he’s even been tempted to pretend. To lie, he can admit to himself—but only himself. It’s the only time Aziraphale ever touches him. 

He rubs his vulva quickly with two fingers, sliding them down to feel Aziraphale’s prick splitting him wide, and then back up to play with the swollen, needy nub of his clit. The fuzzy blond hair of Aziraphale’s thighs tickles against his sensitive skin. He bites his lower lip as another orgasm rolls through him, this one gentler but deeper, and he clenches down tightly on Aziraphale’s softening prick, not wanting it to be over so soon. 

He much prefers the times when they wind up in bed together—sometimes for hours if he’s really gagging for it. In June 1962 on the bookshop sofa, it must have gone on an entire day. He can never predict how many rounds it might take to ease the pain and the need and bring him back to himself. Unfortunately, this time the heat has receded too fast, like it had the previous time and the time several months before that. Come to think of it, the last few times have been like this, quick, without need of a repeat. Though he might want to, he has never lied to Aziraphale. 

“Feeling better, my dear?” Aziraphale asks quietly. 

“Yeah. Um. Yeah. I think I’ll er—be all right now.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

Crowley can’t make out his tone. He almost thinks it sounds rueful, but then everything happens quickly. The feel of Aziraphale pulling out of his body is unpleasant, the warm drip of the angel’s come easing out of him, spattering the floor. Crowley is bereft, suddenly very cold as he turns to look over his shoulder and sees Aziraphale doing up the front of his trousers. 

“The last few times have been . . . more manageable than what we’ve seen in the past,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley is stuck on the words _more manageable_. He feels them like a blade to his throat. “I was thinking the same.” 

“Do you think it’s possible the effects of the poison are wearing off?” 

Crowley shrugs, shimmying his trousers back up. He almost doesn’t perform a cleaning miracle, wanting to feel the evidence of what they’ve done, take it back to the barren Mayfair flat with him. Someone’s sake, he’s soaked right through the crotch of his jeans. He wrinkles his nose and snaps.

“The succubus who dropped the bottle said it would probably be enough to last a hundred and fifty years. Been about a hundred and ten, so . . . maybe?” 

Azirphale is buttoning up his waistcoat. He frowns as he fusses. “Has it really been that long?” 

“Yeah. I know, you’ll be glad to be rid of me. Feels like ages, I’m sure.” Crowley tries to sound as blase as is possible when you’re talking to the love of your eternal life about what will happen once you’re no longer forced to sleep together. 

“I hardly remember what it was like before this,” Aziraphale says softly. “I’ve become . . . somewhat accustomed to it, I suppose.” 

“Accustomed,” Crowley repeats. Aziraphale still isn’t quite able to meet his gaze. He’s like this sometimes, afterwards, as though he feels guilty for what they’ve done. He has never said so out loud, but Crowley knows it’s probably only to spare his feelings. 

“Yes. Quite.” He flushes a little, fingers running up and down his fading velvet front. “That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it. It must be awful for you. Sometimes . . . I forget.” 

Their eyes lock, and Crowley finds something lodged in his throat, some emotion that he knows he can never name. Still, there is something in Aziraphale’s expression that makes him swallow down the fear and discomfort that chokes him whenever he’s close to talking about his true feelings. 

“It’s . . . not awful. I mean being poisoned, yeah, that bit. But . . . you’re not awful.” Crowley yanks at a fistful of hair. “Not what I meant. I mean. I . . . you make it good. I . . . like it.” 

Aziraphale’s cheeks grow even pinker, and Crowley wonders, not for the first time, what the angel would do if he stepped closer and pulled him into an embrace, not connected to sex or the curse or for any other reason than to simply be close. In all of the times they have been together, he has never dared ask for a kiss. It isn’t something he needs, something he could explain away as necessary, but he wants it quite desperately. Has wanted it for one hundred and nine years, in fact.

“Well then. That’s . . . a relief to hear. My dear, I—” Aziraphale clears his throat, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. “What would you say to some wine? I have a nice bottle of Brunello I’ve been saving.” 

“I think we’ve earned it.” 

Aziaraphale licks his lips. “Quite.”

***

_Now_

Two weeks after the Apocalypse that Wasn’t, after the relief and the jubilation and what probably amounts to a hundred liters of wine, Crowley wakes up on Aziraphale’s sofa soaked through with sweat. His entire body is on fire, and between his legs, he’s manifested a cunt that aches so terribly he can barely breathe. 

He tries to sit up, but even that movement sends pain spiking through his veins, makes his swollen sex throb and clench. He feels strangely empty, like something has carved all of the flesh out of him, leaving him nothing but a needy, achy hole. 

It hasn’t hurt like this in years. He vaguely registers that it seems to be in the middle of the night. They are in the bookshop. The angel is at his desk, back turned, happily reading and scribbling away, a requisite mug of cocoa beside him. Crowley bites his lower lip as he watches the broad expanse of Aziraphale’s back, the light illuminating his hair, and a curl of want that has nothing to do with the poison flares through him. 

He groans and tugs on his clothing. 

Aziraphale turns around immediately, his face changing from surprised to concerned to understanding in an instant. He reaches for his reading glasses and removes them with a quick, jerky motion, and is already on his feet before Crowley can utter another sound. 

He kneels next to Crowley and reaches out to still his restless hands with both of his own, threading their fingers together. “Oh, my dear. You look quite terrible.” 

“Thanksss,” Crowley manages, rubbing his thighs together. Another wave of lust crashes over his body, making him wriggle and bringing with it another burst of need so acute he hisses again, low in his throat. “Wasssn’t planning the night to go like this.” In fact, over the last few days, Crowley has been trying to think of a way to broach the topic that has been increasingly on his mind the more time he spends with the angel free from the menace of Above or Below. He’s even come up with something of a speech. This past evening, before he passed out in a drunken stupor, he almost got up the courage, but then Aziraphale had put on one of his snoozy classical records and Crowley had been lost to the world. Now that his heat has come upon him, he can hardly remember what it was he was going to say in the first place. “Ngk,” he finally mutters. “Fuck.” 

Aziraphale nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. He removes one of his hands from Crowley’s grip to caress his forehead, his cool palm a wonderful contrast to the burning heat of Crowley’s skin. His touch is incredibly gentle, almost loving. Crowley blinks and tries to look away, but Aziraphale has captured his gaze. “What would you like?” 

“Is that a trick question, angel? I’d like your cock.” 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says, reddening slightly, “I meant to ask your preference as to how. You know I always want to give you choices, as limited as they may be. I know it can’t . . . be easy. To not be able to choose when this happens to you, or where.” There is something in his voice that Crowley catches on, even though the fog in his brain. 

“What’re you on about, angel?” 

“Well. I know that you would prefer to do this with a human. But I don’t think it’s as safe, not when you’re so vulnerable—”

“What in the name of Heaven ever gave you that—ah—idea?” Crowley arches off the couch, his cunt aching and empty, soaking his briefs. 

“Well. You asked for a human, that first time. You begged me to bring one to you.” There is a flash of something in his eyes, and though Crowley isn’t adept at reading emotions, he is reasonably sure it’s pain. 

Crowley’s mouth gapes. “Angel, that was over a hundred years ago.” 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale purses his lips. “But in the time since then, surely you must have—"

“Fuck no! And I—fuck.” Crowley presses the heel of his palm between this legs, but it’s not enough, not nearly. “I thought you knew—I didn’t want anyone else. I was only trying to spare you.” 

“Spare me?” Aziraphale sounds shocked. “Whatever from?” 

“From this. From me. This mess. Falling. I don’t know. All of it. I wanted to give you a choice.” He swallows desperately and closes his eyes, biting into his bottom lip as arousal makes his belly clench, the muscles tight and spasming. 

“My dearest, don’t you know? I would choose you every time, darling. Even like this. I’d always choose you.” 

Crowley’s eyes snap open. “Don’t say stuff like that, angel. You can’t take it back.” 

“I don’t want to take it back. Do you want me to take it back?” 

“No,” Crowley manages, weakly. 

“Then I think this conversation has gone on far long enough. There will certainly be more to say later, but for now, I think, we had better get you to bed.” 

Crowley agrees, but he can barely stand and is thus forced to suffer the indignity of having the angel carry him out of the bookshop and up the narrow, dusty staircase to his flat. He nearly bangs his head twice, and does bang his knees once, but Aziraphale’s arms are strong around him, not to mention warm, and a ridiculous part of him almost swoons as he notes the determined set of Aziraphale’s jaw, the laser focus of his gaze once they manage to negotiate through the maze of books and fusty, comfortable furniture and enter Aziraphale’s bedroom. 

The bed, which Crowley has seen before, looks bigger than it had the last time, and he vaguely remembers how he had complained about its narrowness. _You can have any size bed you’d like, angel, why choose one made for a toddler?_ It is still fluffy, with a tartan throw at the foot to boot. 

Aziraphale sets him down as though he weighs no more than . . . something that doesn’t weigh very much at all. 

“Mmph,” Crowley says, sinking into the soft, down duvet. He is instantly covered by Aziraphale’s heavier body, and even through the layers of their clothing, he can feel the hot length of Aziraphale’s erection rubbing him right where he needs it—close, but still excruciatingly far away. Aziraphale looks down at him, a strange expression on his face. 

“Angel. C’mon, please.” 

“I will take care of you, my dear, I promise. But may I please kiss you first?” 

“Yeah, do it, yeah.” Crowley has his fingers in Aziraphale’s finespun hair, seeking his mouth greedily. Their lips connect, and all the banked heat in his groin and gut flares to burning. Aziraphale kisses him deeply—expertly, which he files away for later—their tongues sliding deliciously, and Crowley can’t help but go a little snakey. He hopes Aziraphale won’t mind the scales that are certainly erupting on his feet and on the insides of his thighs. He doesn’t think the angel minds what has become of his tongue, if the gasping, hot breaths against his mouth are any evidence. 

Aziraphale kisses him with his whole body, and Crowley loses all coherent thought, clinging onto him—twining, even. He is desperate to be rid of his clothing, so a second later he is, and so is Aziraphale, and their parts line up together just so, and then Aziraphale is sinking into him, his thick cock splitting Crowley wide as their mouths move together. He is so wet and ready, the filling is effortless, and he shakes as his orgasm hits almost immediately. His cunt throbs and he cries out his release, gasping as they part for breaths that neither of them really needs. Aziraphale looks into his eyes and thrusts once, twice, then shudders and lets out a groan of dismay and surprise. Heat floods Crowley deeply, and his body welcomes it gladly, opening and softening for whatever Aziraphale has to give. He has often wondered why his genitals change when his heat comes on—it’s impossible for him to get pregnant, of course, but he thinks that the pollen is intended to make the body receptive. A strange, possessive part of him thrills at the idea. 

“That was rather fast,” Aziraphale says, sounding winded. “I apologize. I think it was the kissing—kissing you—that did it.” 

“It’s all right, angel. There’s more where that came from, I think,” Crowley says, finally able to speak again. Aziraphale’s prick is still hard inside of him. “If you want,” he adds with a smirk.

“Is that what you want?” Aziraphale leans closer, nuzzling against his cheek. It’s the type of affectionate gesture that Crowley, as a demon, should absolutely in no way enjoy, but it melts him like a pat of butter. 

“Yes, it’s what I want. You’re what I want, and always have, you absolute nutter. Kiss me again.” It’s a bit of an abbreviated version of his rehearsed speech, but he already needs more; the initial relief is already wearing off. 

Aziraphale does, and he begins to thrust, a slow, steady rhythm that rubs Crowley in all of the right places. He thinks wildly about how nothing, and in fact everything, has suddenly changed. Aziraphale is making love to him, is fucking him so sweetly and perfectly—he knows exactly how to please Crowley after all these years. And maybe it has always been like this and Crowley just didn’t know or couldn't recognize what was in front of him all along. 

Sex fills the air in smells and obscene, slick sounds; Crowley meets every thrust with a grind of his hips, getting it right where he needs it. Aziraphale is glowing, humanly, a sheen of sweat on the bridge of his nose and his soft-strong shoulders. He keeps dipping his head to kiss and nip at Crowley’s lips, but he drives his cock deeper and deeper, nothing subtle or tentative about that part of him at all. 

“Fuck, yeah,” Crowley groans, tossing his head back to let the angel at his neck. He has gone scaly there, too; he can feel the snakeskin shift under the slide of Aziraphale’s tongue. “Feels so good, angel.” 

“My dear, you feel exquisite. You always do.” The rhythm picks up, jostling Crowley into the bed as Aziraphale works him steadily. He doesn’t even need a hand to push him over the edge, not when his clit is nestled up so tightly to Aziraphale’s groin. But he doesn’t want it to end—not yet. 

He holds on and rolls them over to straddle Aziraphale’s hips, fucking himself down onto the iron-hard prick inside him. Aziraphale, for all he was demanding seconds earlier, instantly relinquishes dominance and lets Crowley ride him to his heart’s content, watching from under thick-lashed eyelids as Crowley rises and falls on his cock. 

It’s a heady feeling, to have the Angel of the Eastern Gate like this underneath him, and Aziraphale is plainly enjoying the scenery as well. His hands skate up and down Crowley’s hips and drift over his arse, but his gaze is everywhere. Angels do, after all, have crazy eyes. 

Crowley slams down onto him, and he wonders what it will be like now—if they will be able to do this when it’s not an urgent matter of debilitating pain. He thinks that yes, they will, and quite often. In fact, he wonders if he’ll ever want to get out of bed again.

Aziraphale’s thighs are tense, his breathing laboured. He looks like he is simply waiting by the skin of his teeth, and so Crowley takes pity on him. He grinds down and brackets Aziraphale’s head between his arms, kissing him sweetly as he starts to come. His whole body shivers and shakes as it overtakes him, and there is a blinding light, and soft feathers, and Aziraphale is the only thing he sees. 

Later, they lie sweaty and sated in each other’s arms. Aziraphale’s head pillows on Crowley’s chest, and he can’t stop touching the soft down on Aziraphale’s chest, can’t stop his fingers from moving to learn every bit of the angel he hasn’t been permitted to know until now. He feels utterly boneless, sated . . . and happy. 

“A duck,” Crowley mutters to himself. 

“Beg pardon?” Azirapahle lifts his head. 

“Ah, something that doesn’t weigh very much at all. You had to have been there. Well, you were there. Never mind.” 

Aziraphale gives him a bemused smile. “There are times when I have no idea what you are talking about, my dear, but I still love you awfully.” 

Crowley grins at him. “I love you awfully, too.”


End file.
